


The Demons We Hold

by Arcturis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Brother Feels, Dean Winchester Angst, Dean Winchester Has Trust Issues, Demon Blood, Demon Blood Addict Sam Winchester, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s05e14 My Bloody Valentine, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester Detoxing From Demon Blood, Sam Winchester Has Self-Worth Issues, Sam Winchester Whump, Sam Winchester on Demon Blood, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-09-18 06:05:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16989453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcturis/pseuds/Arcturis
Summary: A more in-depth look at Sam's detox after defeating Famine; Sam's guilt, Dean's mixed emotions, etc. They rarely delve into the great details like this, so I suppose it's up to us.





	1. I.

Exhilaration.

Raw, unadulterated _power_.

The demon blood sang in his veins and Sam Winchester breathed deeply. He was back in control, back on top. The demons were dead. Famine was gone and they had his ring. He’d done well.

So why did he flinch at the expression on Dean’s face? Pain, anger, disgust, disappointment, fear. The emotions danced chaotically in his older brother’s green eyes.

“Dean … “ his voice faltered, looking at his brother cautiously. Dean eyed him back, features wary. “Dean, let me explain.”

So focused was he on Dean that he missed Cas’ tense expression thrown Dean’s way. But Dean hadn’t missed it.

“Cas.” Dean spoke the angel’s name, resigned, holding Sam’s gaze.

The younger man’s brow furrowed in confusion, unable to follow the situation. Cas disappeared and Sam felt a needle jammed into the side of his neck. Waves of heavy exhaustion beat over him and his eyes widened. “No. Dean, no.” His voice grew muffled as sleep began to overtake him. The last thing he heard before falling into the angel’s embrace was Dean’s broken whisper.

“I’m sorry, Sammy.”

 

_____________________________________________________________

 

Groans emanated from deep within his chest. Awareness was catching up to the youngest Winchester and he willed it away. His head was on fire, like a bad hangover. He reached to rub his eyes, hoping to ease some of the ice-pick pain, but the jangle of metal and pressure of a handcuff surged him to awareness faster than he wanted. He bolted upright, another groan escaping his lips as the pressure in his head increased. It took a moment to master some control over the blinding migraine, but the alarm bells in his mind quickly threw the pain into the back of his mind. He was handcuffed to a cot.

What the hell?

He looked around, squinting slightly against the bright lights and recognized Bobby’s panic room. The events with Famine prior to sedation rushed back to meet him and he felt the blood drain from his face.

Not again.

“Morning, sunshine.” Dean’s quiet voice came from behind him and he turned clumsily, trying to work around the restraining limitations of his bonds.

“Dean, don’t,” Sam bit out tersely. “Please, not again.”

An unreadable expression flickered over Dean’s face before disappearing. “Sorry, Sammy. You didn’t give us a choice.”

“C’mon, Dean.” Sam tried to keep the pleading out of his voice. “ _I_ didn’t have a choice. I saved our necks, I got us Famine’s ring. Just let me out, we can talk about this.”

“No can do,” came the response. “You know what relapse means.”

A short laugh of disbelief burst from Sam. “Relapse? I did what I had to do to get us what we need. We can’t put Lucifer back in his cage without the rings. It was the only option!”

Pain bit into Dean’s features and Sam shrugged away the guilt he felt. Tried to ignore the roiling nausea in his stomach, the memory of gulping down two demon’s worth of blood. He’d never had so much at once before. The rush had been exquisite, reminding him of his need, reminding him of the power that was _his_  to wield. Dean just didn’t understand, he told himself. He didn’t understand how much he needed the blood, how much depended on his ability to exert the power it gave him. Behind it all he buried the shame, the guilt, the self-loathing. The knowledge that he’d failed, that he hadn’t been strong enough to resist temptation.

Another wave of nausea hit him, stronger than the last. His free arm clutched his abdomen as he curled into himself, moaning quietly. “Dean,” he pleaded. “Please. Please don’t do this to me again.”

He missed the violent flinch his words afflicted in his older brother and the guilt that broke in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Sammy,” he said quietly. “You need to dry out. It’ll be over soon.”

Sam watched him walk out, panic forming in his mind. “Dean!” he shouted as the door shut, anger and fear laced into his brother’s name. He started to shout for Dean again, but he lurched over, vomiting into the bucket he knew lay at his feet. The sickness abided after a few minutes and he threw himself back on the cot with a groan, shivering quietly. How long had he been out? How long had it been since his fix? He had no idea. The panic room had a way of blending the time together, with the monotonous sound of the fan above him. He shivered again and rolled onto his side, curling up slightly. He focused through another bout of shivering and cast out with his power, knowing it was a futile exercise within the heavily warded room. Focusing, he tried again, harder than before but the only reward was a blinding pain in his mind. A cry of pain and frustration burst from his lips and Sam pulled angrily at the cuff keeping him to the cot. Would it kill them to at least let him walk around?

Another bout of vomiting had him hunched over his cot again, stomach cramping as he wretched. There was hardly any food in his stomach and so the only regurgitation was the black remains of the blood he’d ingested. God, there was so much. It stunned him how hungry he’d been, how consumed with need. Ruby had always allowed him as much as he could drink, but it had never amounted to more than one demon at a time. This had been so much different. Famine’s power, Sam figured, and he blanched at the thought. How had Dean not been affected? It was beyond his comprehension, but he knew it had something to do with how much Hell had broken him. A pang of sorrow and pity replaced the nausea for a moment before he was hunched back over the bucket, black remains exiting his system in full force.

Shivering wracked his body in longer increments as he fell back onto the cot. The long fingers of his free hand pushed his mopped hair away from his face and green eyes blinked painfully against the bright lights in the room. “Please,” he whispered to nothing, fear creeping back to the forefront. Withdrawal was a curious thing; half of his mind begged, pleaded for demon blood. He craved it with every fibre of his being. The power of need often overtook him, driving him wild in desperation. The other half of his mind rejected the vile substance. He was revolted by his addiction, loathed himself for the weakness it brought him and the fact that he was never truly free of the craving. Two auras in such stark contrast tore him apart, both mentally and physically. He remembered every moment of the last period of withdrawal and knew he wouldn’t be getting off easy.

He took a deep, shuddering breath and curled up a bit more on his side. “Please,” he whispered again. The lights were too bright and emitting unpleasant halos and the pain in his head was increasing just as the cold tremors were. He resigned himself to rest and wait; maybe Dean would be more reasonable in a little while.


	2. II.

Pain woke him from blissful sleep as his muscles began to cramp. He gasped raggedly, hands gripping the side of his cot as he rode out the wave. _It’s just pain,_ he told himself.

_Liar._

Sam bit the inside of his cheek, withering slightly. He shied away from that truth, the one he kept hidden away from even himself because it wasn’t just pain. That wasn’t how these episodes started. It started with _need._ A warning that he needed another fix, the _demand_ for blood. A craving so bad it tensed and contracted his muscles so agonizingly it could make him scream.

Another wave hit him a few minutes later, forcing the breath through his nose to come short and sporadically as he clenched his jaw and screwed his eyes tightly shut. He gulped air as it passed, just as suddenly as it had come, and he sat up gingerly.

“Dean?” he called cautiously, hesitantly. “Dean, please.” His voice faltered because who was he to call to someone? He had failed. He’d seen the disgust in his brother’s eyes and knew he had no right to call out to him in need. But someone must have heard something because Sam heard the locking mechanism click and the heavy iron door creak open.

“Cas?” he asked, blinking in confusion as the angel peered inside hesitantly.

“Sam … “ The angel’s gravelly voice was uncertain, doubt and caution written plainly on his face. “Dean is upstairs.”

“Cas, I need - “ Sam’s word’s cut off as his body tensed painfully and he doubled over, hissing. He heard the door clang shut and the pit of shame in his stomach weighed more heavily as he battled the episode. It faded after a few moments more, but the man didn’t straighten himself back up until he heard the door open again and heavy boot steps enter the room.

“Sam?” Dean’s voice held just as much caution and wariness as Cas’ had and Sam realized he couldn’t raise his head to meet his brother’s eyes.

“Dean.” The younger Winchester spoke the name apologetically, looking at the floor. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you or anything.”

“Cas said you needed something?”

Sam winced, cursing his weakness. “It’s nothing, Dean. I’m fine.”

Dean snorted in obvious disbelief. “Sam, that’s like telling me a bullet wound is just a hangnail.”

A smile flickered at the edges of Sam’s lips before his body cramped so painfully he gasped, falling off the end of the cot.

“Sammy!” Dean’s alarm sounded in the swiftness of his bootsteps as he knelt beside his little brother, hands manipulating his twitching body so the fall wouldn’t dislocate the awkwardly positioned shoulder connected to his bound wrist. Small gasps were escaping in sync with the muscle contractions and he could practically feel Sam swallow down moans of pain.

Sam relaxed against the side of the cot after a moment, breath heaving from his quivering chest and he felt Dean’s thumb pull at his eyelids to check his pupils, feeling his forehead for a fever. Normally he would have batted the mothering away with a roll of his eyes, but he was too tired, too filled with shame to do anything about it right now.

“Why didn’t you tell me this was happening when I walked in?” Dean demanded. He didn’t miss the look of self-condemnation that crossed Sam’s face or the answering silence. He bit his tongue for a few moments before quietly stating “We’re going to have to talk about this once you’re dry. Until then, up. Let’s get you back on the cot.”

Sam stood up shakily and sat back on the cot, stealing a glance at Dean but lowering his eyes again when he accidentally caught his brother’s concerned gaze.

“How long has this been going on?” Dean asked, trying to draw a timeline for himself. He knew the steps his brother’s withdrawal took and he’d be damned if he didn’t do what he could to help. Despite his disgust, despite his disappointment and hurt, he had never been able to bear seeing his brother in pain.

“Not long,” came the quiet answer. “It woke me up, maybe twenty minutes ago? I don’t know, it’s hard to tell how much time passes in here.”

“Is there anything I can do? Anything I can get you? Something for the pain, maybe.”

But Sam was already shaking his head. “No, nothing ever helps, Dean. I just have to … ride it out.” He sent a small, forced smile Dean’s way before looking back down.

“Sam … “ Dean started, then trailed off. What could he possibly say? He struggled to find words but the awkward silence was broken by a swiftly muted moan as Sam stiffened again, swaying on the edge of the cot. “Woah, woah, woah!” Dean hastily sat down and pulled his giant of a brother against him, holding him still as his body twitched. Sam shifted uncomfortably, Adam’s apple bobbing as he tried to swallow the sounds of pain attempting to force themselves from his throat. “C’mon Sammy, don’t be a hero,” Dean quipped in concerned annoyance.

The fit passed and Sam sagged against his brother’s chest, feeling beads of cold sweat trailing slowly down his temple. A whimper of need escaped before he could stop it and they both ignored Dean’s flinch at the verbal representation of Sam’s addiction.

“It’s getting worse,” he whispered.

“I know,” Dean replied simply, squeezing his brother’s shoulder. “You’ll get through it. You always do.”

Sam had his doubts but knew better than to voice them. Though he’d never admit it to his big brother, he was scared. Scared of the craving, the raw _need._ What if it was too much this time? After all, he’d had so much …

A strangled cry escaped breathless lips and his back arched faintly at the intensity of the pain as his body tensed tighter than before. He felt Dean’s arms holding him firmly across his chest, low voice murmuring in his ear. “Relax. C’mon Sam, you’re ok. Just relax.”

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t think of meditations to calm his mind, couldn’t ease the tension in his muscles. As desperately as he tried, he couldn’t soothe the agony as he contorted further, ripping another, longer cry from his throat.

Time passed and the fits came faster and more intensely; a concoction of pain and starvation. Cries became screams and the screams became littered with desperate pleas as the torment grew worse.

“Please! Dean, please! Please!” Sam’s pleading was interrupted by a long cry as he twitched and spasmed in his brother’s arms. Dean’s body was aching from keeping his convulsing baby brother still and he couldn’t feel the tears streaming down his face as he murmured meaningless reassurances that Sam couldn’t hear.

“Just a little, just a cup. Please! Anything! Dean, please, just let me have a little!”

Every plead, every scream, every strangled sob was a punch in the gut. This wasn’t Sam, not really. Sam never begged, not once, not ever. It didn’t matter how bad the pain was, Sam had too much pride. So Dean knew. He knew this wasn’t his Sammy. It was the demon blood but, by God, it was using Sam’s voice and it hurt. _Fuck_ it hurt like a son of a bitch. So when the begging turned to betrayed accusations, Dean couldn’t take it anymore. Telling himself it was a mercy to spare Sam from this kind of agony, he pulled out a syringe and injected the milky sedative into the side of Sam’s strained neck and held Sam close as he faded into unconsciousness.


	3. III.

The heavy slam of the iron door closing behind Dean made him flinch slightly. He stood still a moment, listening. He could hear quiet conversation coming from above, the voices belonging to Cas and Bobby as they conversed about who knew what. Dean stood still a moment more before sliding to the floor. A single tear traced a line down his cheek, swiftly followed by a second until they were flowing freely. No sound nor hitch of breathing gave away his emotions to his friends upstairs, but in the solitary shadows, Dean Winchester cried.

“How could you do it, Sammy?” he brokenly whispered to no one.

A part of what was left of his torn and tattered soul twisted, nearly earning a strangled moan of grief and pain. Unbidden, the memory of Sam at the diner rose to his imagination. Eyes dark and foreign, vicious and savage. Bloodstains dripping down his chin and the emotions playing across his face as he’d finished off Famine. Power, ego, satisfaction, pleasure. It was almost lustful. A shudder ran down Dean’s spine as he forcibly pushed the memory away.

“Son of a bitch.” He couldn’t face this. Not right now. He needed a drink.

He brushed his sleeve roughly over his face and got to his feet, stomping up the stairs to Bobby’s sitting area. The gazes of the two other men were wary and made Dean’s skin crawl, but he refused to look at them, instead pouring himself a tall glass of Bobby’s harsh moonshine. Downing it in a single gulp, he poured himself another. The burn of the crude liquor barely registered, but he took care to sip more slowly.

Questions without voices hung heavily in the room and, as the seconds ticked by, they made Dean more and more agitated. “What?” he finally barked, still avoiding their gazes.

A few moments crept by before Bobby’s gruff voice took the bait. “How’s he doin’?” he asked lamely, as though he hadn’t heard Sam’s screams and pleaded words only minutes ago.

“He’s sleeping.” Dean could practically feel Bobby’s raised eyebrow, but he refrained from elaborating.

“Why sedatives, anyway? Couldn’t your feathered friend over here put him right to sleep? Seems less invasive.”

“I was unsure that my angelic powers would work properly against such potent … taint.” Castiel’s voice was apologetic as he glanced at Dean. “With Sam as strong as he was, it was best not to leave anything to chance.”

Bobby nodded thoughtfully, but sent a glare as Dean poured himself a third round. “You might want to slow down there, son. Sam’s gonna need you again when he wakes back up.”

“Yeah,” came the only reply. A meaningless acknowledgement as the amber liquid poured down his throat. The word was bitter and he saw Cas bristle slightly in his peripheral.

“Dean … “

“Save it, Cas.”

“Dean, it’s important we talk about this.”

The elder Winchester rounded on Cas, eyes blazing. “Why?” he demanded. “I’ve heard enough excuses from him, I don’t need them from you too.”

Crystalline blue eyes raised in exasperation. “Dean, it’s not like that.”

“Why do you care anyways?” Dean spat out. “He’s an abomination, remember?”

Stunned silence met his words and Dean lowered his gaze petulantly, draining his glass.

“Dean … “ Bobby’s voice was slow, hesitant. “Maybe you should listen to him for a minute.”

“Not you too, Bobby. I don’t want to hear it.”

“Why not? Because it might be true? Cas and I have been talkin’, boy, and from the looks of it, ain’t no man could have withstood that kind of temptation. People were boilin’ alive! Eatin’ each other! So yeah, I’m willin’ to hear the angel out on this one.” An uncomfortable silence met Bobby as Dean and Cas looked at each other guiltily. “What?”

“Nothing, Bobby.”

“Spit it out, you idjit.”

“Dean was … unaffected by Famine’s power,” Cas offered up hesitantly.

Green eyes flickered to Bobby’s astonished expression before darting away again uncomfortably.

“So you mean to say an angel who doesn’t eat gorges himself full of raw meat on the floor of some mass grave diner. Sam drinks more than he’s ever had of something he promised he’d never touch again. And you just … what? Couldn’t be bothered?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Dean stated, body language stubborn and upset. There was no reply. Something had happened to Dean in Hell and everyone knew it. It was desecration beyond description, something no one could pinpoint. Not even Castiel, Angel of the Lord, could find the proper description for the damage done to his friend’s soul. Something had been carved out of the man, something that couldn’t be replaced. And no matter how often Dean drank or joked or hunted or got laid, nothing could fill that broken, yawning void.

“He did his best.” Cas spoke quietly, but his voice was firm. “Remember? He alerted you as soon as he knew this would be a problem.”

Dean shifted on his feet, ignoring the angel’s stare.

“Dean. What did he say?” The question demanded an answer and he knew why.

“He said he couldn’t come with. And … and he told us to lock him down.”

“Exactly. I cannot begin to explain to you the unrelenting hunger Famine causes. It is only something you can feel. It is undeniable. I would offer to show you, but I doubt you would feel the effect even from my point of view. However, your inability to understand this trial does not condemn your brother. This was _not his fault.”_

The glass was set aside and Dean leaned against the wall tiredly, a hand passing over his eyes. He knew that or, rather, he tried to understand that. But the memories of his junkie little brother were so toxic, so potent. It was hard to separate the two versions of his brother sometimes.

“He walked out on me,” he whispered. “I told him that if he walked out that door, he’d better never come back. And he didn’t even hesitate.”

“That was your fool choice,” Bobby said indignantly. “But you don’t have to make that same mistake twice.”

He was right and Dean knew it, but that didn’t make the memory any less painful to bear. Sam’s easy dismissal had ripped something inside of him and it was so hard to heal. Although he knew he had a part to play in Sammy’s darkest hour, it didn’t dissipate the fear of him falling back on old habits. Someone had cleaned him out after the Cage had been opened, but Dean remembered how soon his little brother had gone back to old habits after his last go in the panic room. What if Sam slipped again? It would be on him if he did, there would be nothing to excuse it on. Guilt ripped through him as he realized how much he distrusted his brother, but it was so hard not to after all that had happened recently.

“You need to give the kid a break, Dean,” Bobby said quietly. “He’s been doin’ his best and let no man say he’s been given an easy lot in life.”

“That’s not an excuse,” Dean choked out.

“No, but it’s an explanation. You didn’t see him when you were gone, but I did. That kid was a wreck. There weren’t no life left in his eyes. He died when he buried you and there was nothing he wouldn’t have done at the expense of himself to go after that demon bitch.”

“He still went after that demon bitch. I was there, I was alive, and he still went after her.”

A moment passed before Bobby spoke again. “Dean, you ever been under a demon’s influence? I mean really … _really_ at their mercy.”

Dean frowned at Bobby, confused by the question.

“Because I have. And let me tell you, they’re a danger for a reason. Demons may be known for their chaos and destruction, but it’s their _kindness_ that you should be afraid of. They find us at our lowest and they twist and comfort and snake into your head before you have the sense to know what’s what. You let go of your senses and you push away your doubts because they’re so sincere, so interested in your wellbeing that you just … let go of your inhibitions.”

Dean rubbed his eyes again, not wanting to listen to what Bobby was telling him.

“And Dean, in the state your brother was in, he didn’t stand a chance. Your death was the catalyst Ruby needed to lock her chains around him.”

A long silence passed and Dean mulled over the conversation with equal parts of hope and reluctance. His thoughts were interrupted by Bobby’s snort of affectionate derision. “You Winchesters. If you talked about your feelings more maybe you two wouldn’t be so screwed in the melon.”

Dean’s lips twitched into a reluctant smile. “You know us, Bobby. Feelings are for little girls.”

“And dysfunctional drama is supposed to be for soaps,” came the retort. Dean’s smile lifted a little more.

“Forgive him, Dean.” Castiel’s voice was quiet, worried and sad. “He will hurt himself over this more than anyone else ever could.”

“I know, Cas,” Dean replied just as quietly. Sam was hurting and so Dean was hurting and nothing brought out his nasty side more than worry for his little brother. To see him suffer and know there was nothing he could do to help. Deep down, he knew Sam wasn’t at fault for this relapse, but he worried about the possible consequences of Famine’s influence all the same. But one thing he knew for sure: he’d never close the door on his brother again. Sam would always have his big brother to fall back on.


	4. IV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Depictions of violence. What can I say? Withdrawal hallucinations can get nasty.

Dean was propped in a chair, reading a book when Sam woke up. He was still, quiet and only a faint gasp of misery alerted his older brother to his recent cognizance. The chair scraped across the concrete floor as Dean leapt to his feet, hurrying over to Sam.

“Heya, Sammy. How you feeling?”

Sam just moaned quietly, passing a shaking hand over his eyes as the light from above stung his too-dilated eyes. Dean helped him sit up, mouth tightening as he felt his brother’s clammy, trembling frame. “Dean,” came the weak plead. “Please? Just a little. I feel like I’m dying. Everything hurts. I’m so weak, Dean. Please.”

Dean’s mouth tightened a little more, but he clapped his brother on the shoulder and ignored the request. “How about some water, huh? Dehydration’s a bitch. Makes for the world’s worst hangovers.”

“This is so far beyond a hangover.”

“Yeah, but water’s healthy. Isn’t that what you keep telling me? Anyhow, it’ll keep you breathing until you’ve run dry.”

“I don’t think that’s possible.”

Dean paused, frozen in the act of pouring a cup of water. “The hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t you nothing me. Here, drink up.” He helped steady Sam’s hands as he drank. His brother seemed equal parts greedy for the clear liquid and nauseous at the taste. “Easy, dude. Don’t want to be making yourself sick.”

The cup was empty and Sam dropped it carelessly on the bed beside him. Dean let him be for the moment, needing Sam to rest as much as he could, but despite his listlessness, Sam didn’t seem capable of rest. His breathing was shallow and erratic and he was alternating between staring at the wall or the hands pooled in his lap. Amidst the uneasy silence, there was the constant tremor running through Sam’s lean body that Dean could almost hear. When he couldn’t take it anymore, he asked again “What did you mean you don’t think drying out is possible.” Sam didn’t answer, gaze again dropping to his hands.

“Dean … “

“Answer me, Sam. C’mon, I think we’re past secrets right now.”

Sam winced, taking a shaky breath. “You realize this is probably going to kill me.”

Shock iced Dean’s stomach and he stared at his brother. “The hell’s that supposed to mean?” he repeated dumbly.

Sam shook his head. “It was killing me before. Remember? You said I was having hallucinations so profound that I was seizing. That I was being flung around the room. And I’d had maybe a couple of litres that time? I had two full demons. That’s more than … more than I’ve ever had in one sitting.”

“But you made it, Sam.”

“No, Dean. I didn’t. Cas let me out and I went right to Ruby, remember? The only reason I got clean at all was because whoever zapped us up to that plane cleaned me straight out. I didn’t go through withdrawal. Somehow I don’t see that happening this time.”

“Sam, you’re not gonna die.”

“You can’t know that.”

“Neither can you. Sam, you’re not gonna die!” Dean’s voice was firmer now, tainted with panic and distress.

But Sam didn’t answer, eyes fixed on something invisible in front of him. His breathing increased and he looked afraid. “You stay the hell away from me,” he whispered shakily.

“What? Sam, there’s no one there.”

“That’s not true. You’re lying,” Sam said to no one.

“Sam.” Dean tried to shake his brother, then again and again with increasing force, but Sam didn’t respond and Dean stepped away, brows creased worriedly.

“That’s not true, Ruby. I don’t care what you think, or what you said, I’m not that person anymore. Get the hell away from me. Now!”

Dean froze, eyes widening. “Aww, Sammy,” he whispered desolately. He felt hollow and cold inside and tried snapping in front of Sam’s face, even pretending to deck the guy to try to shake him out of his hallucination, but Sam’s absolute lack of response told Dean that, in Sam’s current reality, he was no longer there. Checking Sam’s handcuff anxiously, he stood and looked at his little brother a little longer before walking back out the door. There was nothing he could do for Sam right now.

Sam, who was trying to edge away from Ruby as she waltzed up to him slowly. “What’s the matter, Sam? Didn’t you miss me?”

“No,” he growled. “You lied to me, Ruby. You screwed me up.”

“Did I?” she questioned, drawing closer. “Are you sure that wasn’t on you? I didn’t make you do anything. I just gave you the choices and you made all the right ones.”

Sam swallowed hard, trying to look anywhere but at her. “Just leave me alone.”

“But Sam,” she purred. “I come bearing gifts. I just want to make peace between us.” A knife appeared in her hand, the demon blade, and she drew it slowly across her forearm, leaving a dripping trail of crimson. Sam tried to swallow the whine of need, only partially succeeding. “See? It’s _okay_ , Sammy.”

His chest ached and his head hurt. He could feel the blood rushing through his veins, pumping towards the slow drip of Ruby’s blood. “Oh God,” he moaned. “Please, Ruby.” He couldn’t tell if he was begging for it or begging for her to leave. The duality of his mind was fighting, trying to establish the dominant thought process and his tremors increased with the stress. His body tensed painfully and he tried to hard to keep a collected mentality, but he could _smell_ it. It was ambrosia. It was his salvation. And it was _so damn close._

“They’ve been starving you, Sammy,” she whispered. “I’m sorry I was gone for so long, but I’m back now. I’m going to take care of you, just like I used to.” She reached out to brush back his sweat-soaked hair, but before she could touch him, she dissipated like smoke. Sam jumped, looking frantically around the room and, seeing nothing, curled into himself and sobbed quietly. After all this time, even independent of Famine’s influence, he still craved it. He was a monster. Knowing all that had happened, knowing how far he had fallen and the harm he had caused, was just too much. He’d started the _Apocalypse._ Let _Satan_ out of Hell. And he still craved that sick drug, so much that it was a physical pain.

“I’m an abomination,” he mouthed silently, remembering Castiel’s words.

“Too damn right.”

Sam jumped out of bed, yelping as the handcuffs pulled roughly at his aching shoulder. He looked around and stopped, frozen in place at the figure glaring darkly at him from Dean’s chair.

“ … Dad?”

“No. I used to be. But that was back when I thought you were human.”

“What? I am human.”

“No. Whatever the hell you are, it’s not human. You’re infected, Sam. Infected with demon blood.” John’s eyes were cold, detached. Sam shivered, trying to back away as John stood up.

“I … I know. But infection doesn’t mean I’m not human.”

“You sure about that? Because, from what I hear, your eyes turned black. Human eyes don’t turn black, Sam. Demon eyes do.”

The truth stole Sam’s breath, his chest tightening in fear. “I’m not,” he whispered. “I passed all the tests. I pass through Devil’s traps. Holy water doesn’t hurt me. Trust me, Dean and Bobby tried every test under the sun to make sure I’m me.”

“Dean,” John snorted derisively. “I told him that if he couldn’t save you, he had to kill you. Looks like he screwed that one up. I should’ve known he wouldn’t have it in him. Well … if you’re not a demon, and you’re certainly not human, we’re going to have to figure out exactly what you are. And how to kill you. For everyone’s safety.”

Sam fell to his knees, blood draining from his face. “What? Dad, no. No!”

“I’m not your dad,” John said, voice devoid of all emotion. “Sam’s dead. You murdered him.”

“I’m right here! I’m Sam!” But then he was tied to the bed and John was placing tools on a bedside table. “No. Dad, no. Please!” John ignored him, carefully selecting a slim scalpel. Sam struggled against his restraints, gasping raggedly in fear. “Help. Help!”

“No one’s coming to help you, Sam.”

“Dean. Cas? If you’re out there, please! Help!”

The scalpel descended on his chest through his shirt, digging mercilessly into his pectoral. Sam shouted in pain, both physical and emotional. This was his dad. How could he do this to him? The scalpel trailed downward, towards his abdomen and another shout escaped his throat. It wasn’t normal metal, something about it _burned_ into him. “I knew it,” John said grimly. Despair welled in Sam’s mind.

“Dean, help me!” But the blade had turned upwards, grazing against clavicle in white-hot pain and Sam’s strangled cry echoed in the room, no matter how hard he tried to clamp down. The scalpel, coated in Sam’s blood, was returned to the table. He could almost see the ribbons of black taint hidden in the crimson. John picked up something that looked vaguely like a large, corkscrew wine-opener and Sam blanched. “Please! Please!” Sobs drew out his pleas and transformed them to howls of agony as the device was plunged into his stomach.

Time passed indiscernibly as John confirmed his inhumanity to both of them. Cries of pain mixed with cries of despair until there was only blackness.


	5. V

Heavy bootsteps sounded down the stairs, but Dean didn’t look up. His green eyes were fixed on his fists, clenching and unclenching on his thighs as he leaned against a wooden beam. When a bottle of whiskey passed into his sight, he reached for it, clutching it like a lifeline and took a long swig of the burning liquid. He didn’t thank Cas, but the angel didn’t need any verbal sign of gratitude. His friend was suffering in a way he couldn’t comprehend. While he mourned the torment Sam was currently experiencing, the situation wasn’t something he had ever been through and he regretted the fact that he couldn’t empathize with Dean. He wanted to say something, anything, that would lessen the burden on his human companion, but he knew that platitudes were meaningless and would only make Dean feel worse. Was that what humans meant when they spoke of sweet nothings? Cas didn’t know. Perhaps he’d ask Dean when things were looking up.

Dean took another long gulp of alcohol as they heard Sam begin to scream, calling for them. His eyes were fixed straight ahead, face pulled taught in pain and turmoil. He wanted nothing more than to answer Sam, but he knew it was unlikely that his brother would even recognize his presence.

“That’s not him in there,” Cas said quietly. “Not really.”

“I know.”

“Dean. Sam just has to get it out of his system.” The angel sounded worried, as though he thought Dean might still be blaming his brother. “And then he’ll be - “

“Listen,” Dean interrupted, voice strained. “I just, uh - “

“Please!”

Sam was sobbing. His Sammy was begging, pleading to him for help. Dean felt his stomach clench and thought he might be sick. “I just need to get some air,” he forced out, rounding to hurry up the stairs and burst out the front door, leaving Bobby to call out for him. Dean ignored the older man as he spurred himself on through the mountains of broken cars and machinery. He had to get away. He had to go somewhere, anywhere he couldn’t hear Sam’s suffering. He couldn’t bear it anymore.

A crack of thunder sounded overhead as he trudged to a stop beside Baby, looking aimlessly around him. The open bottle of whiskey was still in his hand, forgotten as tears leaked down his cheeks, masked by the rain that had begun to fall. It took a lot of effort, far more than he was used to, to choke down his own sobs. The pain reared into his throat as if trying to force verbal, violent emanations of his heartbreak.

“Please,” he whispered brokenly, looking up to the heavens. “I can’t - “ His voice faltered, words failing him. His throat worked painfully as he tried to find something to say. “I need some help.” Was anyone listening? In truth, he didn’t even know who he was praying to. He never prayed to anyone besides Cas. Who was out there? Was anyone even listening? It didn’t matter, he told himself. “Please.”

Dean didn’t know how long his stood there in the rain, watching bolts of lightening fracture the sky above, which seemed to mirror his own pain. His mind reached out, straining and pleading for an answer to his prayer. He wasn’t even sure if he expected one. All he knew was that he’d try anything for Sam. He’d sold his soul for him, surely he could pray, even if he didn’t believe in the power of prayer. But he’d believe anything for Sam.

“Dean!”

_Now what?_ he thought wearily as Bobby jogged up.

“Sam’s started convulsin’. You’d better get in here.”

Mixed emotions blended inside Dean’s mind. Some were trivial, such as the gratitude he felt that the rain had hidden the tears streaking down his face. Some were worried; the seizures had a tendency to telekinetically fling his brother across the room. Why had Bobby left him alone? Amidst it all, he felt a bloom of hope. This was the last step in Sam’s withdrawal. If he could make it through this, he’d be fine.

_When,_ he corrected himself sternly. _When he makes it through this. Sammy’s gonna be fine._

He flew through the door, tossing the bottle of whiskey haphazardly on the kitchen table, ignoring the way it wobbled precariously on the edge as he rushed downstairs and into the opened panic room. Cas had Sam gripped firmly in his arms, angelic strength keeping the man from being thrown into the iron walls. Bobby’s belt was already shoved through his clenched jaws so he wouldn’t bite his tongue. Small moans littered Sam’s hitched, strained breathing as his limbs twitched fitfully.

“How long?” he demanded, checking Sam over as the convulsions began to ease.

“Perhaps twenty minutes after you left. No longer than three minutes and forty-two seconds ago.”

Dean rolled his eyes at Cas’ precision, but he couldn’t hide the relief and comfort he found in such small things. “Sammy?” he called gently, patting his brother lightly on the cheek. “C’mon Sam, time to come round.” He lifted eyelids, checking his brother’s pupils, talking quietly to him. When Sam failed to regain awareness, Dean set his jaw and rubbed his knuckles hard against his sternum, relaxing when the pain made Sam moan, then hiss, then bat his hand away weakly.

“Ow. Stop Dean, that hurts.”

“That’s the point, you bitch.”

“You’re a jerk.”

Dean could have kissed him, he was so happy. Sam was blinking, trying to wipe his disorientation out of his eyes. “Dean. Cas? Where the hell am I?”

“You’re in the panic room, Sam. At Bobby Singer’s in Sioux Falls.” Cas’ voice was as grave as always and eternally exact.

Dean rolled his eyes again, but Sam still looked confused. “Again? Still?”

“Not for too much longer, Sammy. We’re in the one-yard line now.”

“I feel like death,” Sam rasped. “It hurts to breathe. What happened?”

“You had a seizure. Demon blood was trying to fling you all around the room. Cas had to hold you down.”

Recognition flared in Sam’s hazel eyes, but he stayed quiet, focusing on his breathing. He didn’t tell Dean he didn’t think he’d make it, that the very air on his skin burned. There was more hope in Dean’s eyes than he’d seen in a long time and he had to let his brother have this victory. He had to let him believe in something. That spark had been absent in those familiar emerald eyes since Dean had gotten back from hell and Sam wanted it to stay there, even if he didn’t believe in his own recovery.

“You ok, dude?” Dean interrupted his grim musings. Sam just sent him the most sarcastic look he could muster.

“You’re joking, right? I think ‘ok’ is a little relative right now.”

“If you’re bitching, you’re fine,” Dean grinned. Sam tried to roll his eyes, but gasped quietly as pain spiked in his head.  Dean’s grin melted to concern. “Hey, take it easy. You’ve still got maybe twenty-four hours before it’s all out of your system.”

“How long?”

“Three, maybe four days? I don’t know, I’ve lost track. I’ve had more important things on my mind.”

“It’s been five,” Cas clarified. “Nearly six days.”

Both the Winchesters looked at Cas in shock. Neither had realized the toll, both in physical and mental exertion and in time itself. “Been a rough week,” Dean muttered.

Sam huffed a weak, humorless laugh. “One more day can’t be that bad then.”

“That’s the spirit, Sammy.” Dean clapped a hand to Sam’s shoulder, ignoring his younger brother’s wince. “Now, we’re going to have to tied you down. And I mean all the way down, Sam. This demon blood is some nasty crap and it’s safer if you’re tied down so we don’t miss an episode, ok?”

Sam swallowed, but nodded reluctantly. He didn’t want his last few hours strapped down to a bed, but he’d do whatever Dean felt necessary. It felt imperative to him to play Dean’s game, to let his big brother believe that Sam also believed. He had tried. He’d tried for days, but he couldn’t rid himself of the black feeling of dread and the stench of death that was only increasing as the time went on. It was more powerful than ever; this great shadow that engulfed the room, centering on himself. He knew that shroud was coming for him, blanketing him over. He knew that he deserved this end, after all he'd done. He knew he wasn't heading upstairs and he deserved that too. He also knew that Dean couldn’t see the visual representation of his coming demise. So he’d pretend. He’d already tried to tell Dean he didn’t think he’d make it out of this, but Dean had protested so fully, so completely.

Dean felt sorrow trickle through the relief he had so recently found. Despite what Sam thought, there wasn’t much that his younger brother could hide from him. He could see the fight was gone from those tired, hazel eyes. It was usually Sam who kept the faith for them both, holding their heads above water with his tireless optimism. Dean supposed it was high time he took on that calling. So he smiled gently at Sam, brushing Cas away so he could take Sam’s exhausted frame into his arms.

“C’mon Sam. Just rest. I know it’s rough, but you’ll make it out of this in one piece. It’s ok if you don’t believe it, but you’d better fight your hardest regardless of that hopelessness. You hear me, Sammy? Because if you give up, you’d better be sure I’ll kick your ass when this is all out of your system.” He could feel a small, silent laugh vibrate through Sam.

“I don’t suppose you’d take it easy on me, considering everything.”

“No friggin’ way, dude.” Dean’s voice was firm, absolute.

He felt, rather than heard, Sam’s smile as he drifted to sleep. “Didn’t think so.”


	6. VI.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not happy with this chapter. It's more a filler than anything else, but I needed a way to ease the passage between A and B and this was the best I could come up with.

Sam awoke and, at once, wished he hadn’t.

Everything hurt. He imagined what it would be like to compete in a triathlon with no prior training while dehydrated on a one hundred degree day, all while suffering a virus and assumed that it was probably similar to how he was feeling in his current state. Had he died? Was this Hell?

He tried to get his bearings, noticing he was no longer in the panic room. Wincing at the stabbing pain moving his eyes caused him, he looked around to determine he was in what qualified as Bobby’s living room. _So probably not hell,_ he thought to himself wryly. He couldn’t hear anything, which made him wonder where everyone had gone and, more puzzling, why they had left him alone outside of the panic room. Surely they had no trust in him, after …

Memories of the previous week rushed back to him suddenly, causing his breath to catch. A stray tear leaked down his temple as he screwed his eyes shut, wishing he had died so he didn’t have to face Dean again. Surely Hell had to be better than that. Pain, torture, eternal torment, he could face it all. He even preferred the thought of it over facing the truth. He had shattered Dean’s trust in him, breaking his promise and throwing Dean’s olive branch back in his face in spectacular fashion.

“Oh god,” he whispered miserably. “What have I done?” He listened again, more attentively than before. He could hear muted conversation, likely from the porch. If he could just sneak away before they realized he was gone …

The idea was increasingly appealing and he threw the blanket off quietly, biting back a groan as his body protested movement of any kind. He pushed himself slowly to a sitting position, swaying dangerously as his vision swam. He was so dizzy. The whole room was spinning and he felt close to falling back to the couch. A few deep breaths and fear rekindled in his chest as he heard heavy boot steps shifting just outside the front door. Sam steadied himself, spotted his backpack on a chair a few feet away and stood up, ready to flee. But as he took a single step, his vision blacked out and he crumpled to the floor, unconscious.

 

_____________________________________________________________

 

Awareness pulled Sam back from blissful nothingness and he fought it. He didn’t want to feel. He didn’t want to be in pain, to face Dean, to face the dark truth of his own nature. The void was nothingness and that was peace, or as close to peace as a Winchester could ever grasp. But green pierced the black with the worried expression in Dean’s eyes as he came into focus and Sam felt despair so keenly that he couldn’t breathe.

“Sam? Sammy, you good? C’mon man, wake up. There you go.” Sam said nothing, merely looking around vaguely, wincing at the spikes being driven through his skull. “You stupid bastard,” Dean was muttering, checking over his brother’s vitals. “Spend a week detoxing, but sure. Up and at ‘em, Sam! What a great idea!”

Sam groaned, batting Dean’s hand away. “Leave me alone, Dean.”

Dean just sighed, shifting to support Sam’s weight. “Let’s get you back on the couch. One … two … three … go.” He heaved his brother up, taking most of Sam’s gangling weight. Sam gasped, vision hazing over again, but Dean was quick and had laid Sam down in a matter of seconds. “You’ve got to take it easy, dude. The hell were you thinking?”

Sam didn’t respond, but the threads of frantic worry were clear in Dean’s voice. “I thought I was going to die,” he said quietly.

“Well it was a bit touch and go there at the end,” Dean admitted uncomfortably. “But you made it through.”

“I shouldn’t have.”

“The hell you shouldn’t,” Dean growled, fear intermingling with the audible worry.

“Dean - “

“Sam, don’t,” Dean spat. Sam flinched, refusing to meet his older brother’s eyes. Minutes of uncomfortable silence passed before Dean spoke again, strained and fervent. “Don’t do this to yourself, man. This wasn’t your fault.”

“The hell it wasn’t. You don’t even believe that. Don’t try to make me feel better.”

Dean stared at Sam, stunned. The truth was that he still struggled with this, deeply. The battle between logical fact and feelings of betrayal and mistrust was always an intense fight. But he knew that he wanted to believe, wanted it so badly it ached.

“Look at me. Sam, _look_ at me.”

Sam struggled, his hitched breathing showing in the haphazard rises and falls of his chest. Hazel eyes flickered nervously around the room before meeting Dean’s. He held them for only a moment before staring back at the ceiling, but it was enough for Dean to see the absolute torment in his brother’s eyes. His Sammy was still hurting in ways that trivialized his tattered physical state. Dean pulled a chair over to sit next to the couch, rubbing his eyes tiredly. A long while passed, each man lost in his own miserable thoughts. The sun began to set, Sam fell asleep and awoke and still they said nothing.

“Where’s Bobby and Cas?”

Sam’s voice startled Dean out of his own thoughts. “Out,” he replied. “Sam - “

“Don’t.” Sam’s voice was hard.

“No,” Dean replied firmly. “You’re never going to heal if you don’t work this out. And you sure as hell can’t do it on your own. We need to talk about this.”

“Why?”

“Don’t be obstinate,” Dean said, irritated. “What, are you twelve?”

Sam’s teeth ground, angry, but he held his tongue.

“Sam, this wasn’t your fault. There’s no way this can be placed on you, not even a little. Did you even see Cas when you busted in? He wasn’t even looking at Famine. He was too busy stuffing his face with raw meat. Famine could have ganked me easy and Cas wouldn’t have batted an eye. If an angel of the Lord couldn’t fight that kind of influence, what makes you think you’re responsible for what happened?”

“I wouldn’t have had to fight it if it wasn’t there in the first place.”

“Then it would have been something else. C’mon, Sam. You _know_ that.”

“But it wasn’t. It wasn’t something else, Dean. Don’t you understand? We’re starved of so many things in this screwed up life. There were so many options to choose from and … and _that …_ that was … “ Sam trailed off, swallowing convulsively as he fought to keep his composure.

“I know, Sammy. I know, but look at the bright side. We’d dealt with it before. We had steps in place, we knew what to do, what to expect.”

Sam laughed hollowly, an expression of pain rather than feigned amusement. “The fact you even had to have those precautions in the first place.”

Dean stood up, poured a glass of water, and handed it to Sam. “Drink,” he ordered. Sam’s hands shook, threatening to spill the liquid. He thought about refusing, just to piss Dean off, but the cool liquid was too tempting and he gulped it greedily until he felt Dean’s warning grip on his arm. “Slow down. You’re going to make yourself sick and you already look miserable enough.”

Sam slowed reluctantly, fighting the urge to chug the entire pitcher’s contents and tried to placate himself with small, frequent sips, but there was guilt equal to the relief. As satisfying as the water was, it wasn’t what he wanted, not really. He felt his blood pulse and he flinched, gripping the cup hard, knuckles white in protest against the all-familiar craving.

Dean frowned, grateful the cup wasn’t glass, and gently pried it from Sam’s hands. The physical contact brought Sam out of his haunted, absent stare and he relinquished the cup to Dean, folding in on himself guiltily. “I’ll drop it for now,” Dean said quietly. “You need to rest up. But before we leave Bobby’s, after you’re doing well enough to travel, we’re going to hash this out. You can’t sit on this forever, Sam. It’s killing you.”

Sam said nothing and Dean didn’t expect him to. He stayed silently by the couch, watching over Sam until the younger Winchester drifted back to sleep.


	7. VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this should be wrapped up in a few more chapters. I'm aiming for ten total and we're nearing the end of the storyline. Thanks for sticking with it so far!

Weeks passed in agonizing monotony. Detox had injured Sam far more than he had initially realized. He had lost an almost impossible amount of weight in the week he’d been ill. The demon blood had ravaged his system, causing some minimal internal damage and muscle deterioration that had to be mended. Dean had put him on a strict liquid diet for the first week consisting mostly of broths, water and protein shakes. Sam developed a gum habit just to have something to chew. He delved into Bobby’s library in an attempt to keep his mind focused on something other than his next fix.

After a week, he’d begun walking slowly, combating the vertigo he felt when he was upright. He’d been confined to the house for the first few days. After a week, he’d been allowed a few short walks per day around Bobby’s junkyard. The older man had left a few days after Sam had woken up. He’d found a hunt, he said, and was itching to get out of the house for awhile. Sam guessed Dean had probably found something to keep him away until Sam recovered more fully. He didn’t know whether he was grateful or upset about Bobby’s absence.

He felt, rather than saw, the constant vigilance of Dean and Cas’ eyes. They followed him constantly when they thought Sam wasn’t looking. The first two weeks, Sam had made constant plans of escape and had even made a few attempts when he could rely on his own balance again. Either Cas or Dean always walked in on him, pretending to believe the hasty, half-logical lie that Sam came up with. Each attempt brought more scrutiny and eventually he stopped trying. He knew Dean well enough to know that he’d never slip past him. Dean expected him to run.

The older Winchester was worried. Sam’s physical state was improving steadily. He’d always healed fast and this was no exception. But, despite his brother’s excellent acting skills, Dean saw through the smiles, the joking quips, the easy stances. Sam’s mental state was fractured and it was only getting worse. Dean would sometimes round a corner to find Sam blankly staring at a wall, flinching every few seconds while rubbing his arms impulsively. He recognized the feverish burning in Sam’s eyes, the dire struggle as his addiction fought to regain control. Dean would retreat, then walk back, making his boot steps louder to alert Sam to his approach and giving his brother a merciful few seconds to pull his mask back on.

Three weeks in, Dean walked into the living area and dropped lazily onto the chair next to Sam’s place on the couch. He peeked a look at the book his brother was focused on, ‘American Monsters’. “Anything good?” he asked casually.

“Not really,” Sam admitted with a sigh. “It’s typical hear-say. Even the lore on werewolves is convoluted and exaggerated, as per usual.”

Dean snatched the book from Sam’s hands, thumbing through it. “Why does Bobby even have this junk?”

“No idea. I’m about to give up on it myself. Maybe there was something obscure in there that hit on the truth, but I can’t really find anything substantial in there.”

“Mm,” Dean sounded absently, slamming the book closed and tossing it on the nearest pile. “How you feeling, Sammy?”

Sam shifted slightly, face thoughtful as he assessed his physical status. “Better. I’m not so dizzy anymore. My joints hurt still, I’m sore. I’m still getting headaches. Other than that, I feel good. I think I’ll be ready to get back to work in the next couple weeks.”

“Want to put that to the test?”

Sam looked over at him, confused. “Meaning what?”

“Thought it might be a good idea to spar a bit. See where you’re at. I think it’ll be good for both of us. I’m climbing the walls, dude.”

Sam huffed a small laugh. He’d never liked staying in one place for so long. Neither of them did, but Dean was always the more impatient of the two. “Sure, Dean. There’s enough space outside to move around for a bit.” He bit back a groan as he stood up, stretching minutely to ease the tension in his body. He’d always enjoyed sparring, even if Dean usually came out on top. They’d been so busy the past couple of years, it was a rare occurance and he craved at the physicality of it. It was simple, easy, instinctual. A welcome distraction.

They walked outside and found an area wide enough to practice without squeezing past the mountains of cars in Bobby’s junkyard. They walked the perimeter and started circling each other. Their movements grew slower, longer, as their fighting instincts kicked into gear. Dean feinted at him once, twice. Sam rolled his shoulders easily, eyes lidded in concentration as he watched for Dean’s tells. He could tell his brother was eager for activity and he wouldn’t wait long to start going at it.

Dean lunged at him and Sam leapt to the side, using Dean’s momentum to push him along. A grin crossed Dean’s face and a smaller, answering smile of anticipation lit up Sam’s. “C’mon, brother,” Dean taunted, voice lazy. “You can do better than that.” Sam feinted to the left and threw a punch. Dean’s arm came up to block and return, but Sam ducked, aiming an elbow at Dean’s ribs. The older man grunted as he took the hit, kicking Sam’s legs out from under him. Sam fell, the impact knocking the breath out of him.

“Ow.” He groaned as Dean’s grinning face loomed above him, offering his brother a hand. Sam glared, but took the hand and Dean hauled him up before they started circling each other again.

“You’re out of practice, Sammy,” he smirked.

Sam’s face twitched into a determined smile and he kicked, the rock he was aiming for striking Dean’s shin. His brother swore in outraged pain and Sam knocked him to the ground, sending a tempered punch at Dean’s face. He hit once, twice, before Dean bucked him off and pinned him to the ground, giving a single return punch. Sam struggled, but couldn’t find a way out of the position Dean had locked him in.

“I give,” he grumbled.

Dean grinned, letting him up. “Better. But you hit like a girl.”

Sam hauled himself up, brushing the hair back from his eyes. “Knowing the women we do, that’s a compliment.”

“I said girls, not women. Besides, I let you off easy. You deserved at least two more hits for that cheap trick.”

Sam grinned mischievously, snickering. “No such thing as dirty in a fight. You know that.” It was something their Dad had taught them early on when teaching them to fight. Monsters wouldn’t play fair, so neither should they.

“Yeah, well Dad scored high on the list of dirty fighters,” Dean said grumpily.

“This coming from the man who probably surpasses him in a good fight,” Sam laughed.

“Sand in the eyes, a good ear-clapping, it’s all classic tricks. But seriously? A rock to the shins? C’mon man, that’s just … ungentlemanly!”

Sam had bent over laughing and Dean took his chance. He kicked at the ground, attempting to get the aforementioned earth into his brother’s eyes. It didn’t work, but it served as an additional distraction, allowing Dean to strike out with a foot, knocking Sam to one knee. Dean struck again, a fist to Sam’s cheekbone, before Sam rolled out, swearing quietly. “You just proved my point.”

Dean shrugged. “Not my fault you weren’t paying attention, bitch.”

Sam grimaced, conceding the point. He rolled his shoulders, wincing at the tenderness and pain that was starting to creep back to the forefront of his mind. “You’re a jerk,” he muttered, refocusing on Dean.

Dean saw the swift look of pain that crossed and left Sam’s face. His brother was stubborn and didn’t often call it quits when he needed to. Dean considered ending the spar, but Sam lunged at him, and Dean blocked him reflexively. His distraction cost him three swift punches before he could duck out of the way. Dean was impressed. Usually when they got into it, really lost themselves to the ebb and flow of a spar, they blocked and ducked for minutes on end before one of them managed to land a solid hit. Despite the fact Sam was still recovering, he was still holding his own well and Dean hid a smile. He jumped back towards Sam and they locked for a long few seconds before Dean managed to push his brother back. Sam stumbled and Dean sent a punch after him, landing into his chest.

Sam cried out falling to his knees. The abrupt action stopped Dean short and he looked at his brother in confusion. Sam’s eyes were screwed shut and he was trembling faintly, his breathing uneven.

“Sammy?” Dean knelt in front of him uncertainly. What was wrong with him? He’d held back his punch, as they always did. Was something wrong with his lungs? Was there damage from detox they didn’t know about? “Sammy, what’s up?”

“Nothing. Fine. I’m fine.” Sam forced the words out through gritted teeth and Dean scowled.

“This isn’t fine, Sam. Don’t play the hero, what’s going on?” He reached out, feeling for Sam’s chest, trying to assess the damage. Sam jumped back, stumbling.

“Don’t. I said I’m fine Dean.”

“Sam, this isn’t fine. What’s going on?” Sam’s pale demeanor and the fear and pain in his eyes was worrying Dean, sending spikes of agitation up his spine. Sam had been completely open about the physical damage the demon blood had inflicted upon his body. Why was he locking up about this? He took a step towards his brother, but Sam took a step back.

“I think I’m done for the day,” he stammered out, backing up towards the house. “I’m tired. We can try again tomorrow.” He turned and hurried away, leaving Dean to stare after him in shock and anxiety. Something was terribly wrong. He shook himself out of several alarming theories and hurried after Sam.


	8. VIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Self-harm
> 
> The differing versions of Dean's voicemail to Sam after he left to kill Lilith always intrigued me and it pissed me off they never resolved the fact that Ruby screwed with the message to manipulate Sam. So I fixed it lol.

Dean searched for a long time before he found Sam. He had searched the perimeter of the house and the surrounding piles of cars and had found nothing. He swore quietly to himself, his anxiety growing as he spun around, looking. “Where’d you go, Sammy?”

 A hand ran through his short hair and he started back for the house. He had to be somewhere inside; there was nowhere else he could have gone. He burst in through the screen door, looking through the rooms. “Sam? Sam, where are you?” Muted expletives made him halt in his tracks, listening intently. He heard rustling in the bathroom and he tried to open the door, turning the locked handle impatiently before banging his fist on the door.

 “Stay out, Dean.”

 “Sam, let me in.”

 “Do you always demand to come in when someone’s using the pot?”

 Dean frowned. There was an odd strain to his brother’s voice that he was failing to hide. “Let me in. Now.”

 There was no answer and Dean’s gut was screaming warnings to his brain, making him ill with fear. He weighed his options before backing up and kicking down the door. A strangled cry escaped Sam as he startled hard, before turning his back to Dean.

 “I told you to let me in. What the hell are you doing in here, man?” The odd scene in front of him distracted Dean and he missed Sam’s stammered reply. He frowned, trying to make sense of the situation. Sam’s shirt was off, draped over the sink. He was breathing hard, back turned to Dean. A hand was bracing himself on the wall, the other holding something in front of him that Dean couldn’t see. He was about to demand an explanation when something small dropped to the floor, catching his eye. He took a step forward, missing the way Sam tensed. There were droplets on the floor, scarlet red.

 Blood.

 “No,” Dean breathed, disbelieving the evidence. “What … Sam?” It took a few moments, but the anger kicked in. He’d done it. Sam had given in. After all the stress and pain and agony of the past month and, somehow, he’d gotten a fix. Dean’s face twisted and he spun Sam around, slamming him back against the wall. “How the hell did you get that?” he demanded. His voice was hard, sharp with anger and betrayal, but he didn’t care. Sam’s face was ash-white and he was wriggling in his grasp, still-thin, trembling frame trying desperately to flee.

 Something flashed in Dean’s peripheral and he looked down, brow furrowing in confusion. A blade in Sam’s shaking hand, his hunting knife, was flashing as it caught the bathroom lights above them. Beadlets of crimson dripped lazily off the sharp tip, contrasting starkly to the shining, silver metal. Dean’s eyes trailed slowly back to Sam, following the red streams up Sam’s stomach and stopping at his chest.

 “Oh god, Sammy.”

 Dean wasn’t sure if his voice even worked. There was too much rushing in his ears and he thought his legs might give out. There were lacerations covering Sam’s chest. Some looked a couple weeks old, but they were hardly visible behind the newer, angry, bleeding wounds.

 “Sam, what the hell?”

 There was no answer. Sam’s eyes were darting everywhere, everywhere but at Dean.

 “Sam! Answer me!” Dean shook him and that seemed to break him out of his paralysis. He shoved Dean back, hard, and rushed past him into the living area, walking towards the front door. Dean rushed past him and blocked the exit.

 “Move,” Sam spat out, refusing to look at Dean.

 “Hell no. You’re going to tell me what the hell’s going on. Now.”

 “Why do you care?” Sam’s voice was demanding, angry. Dean could only stare at him, incredulous.

 “Why do I … ? Sam, _look_ at yourself! What kind of stupid question is that?” Sam’s eyes flashed up, furious, but he looked down again almost immediately. Dean just stared at him, hopelessly lost and trying to find any reasonable explanation for what was happening. His brother was refusing to answer, teeth grinding as he shifted his weight anxiously. The older man stepped towards him, but Sam inhaled sharply and stepped back immediately.

 “Sammy … “ Dean’s voice broke and he took a moment to collect himself before trying again. “Whatever’s going on with you, whatever’s going on in your head, we can fix it. Let me help. Please.”

 Sam finally held his brother’s gaze and Dean’s breath caught in his chest. Fury, pain, guilt, betrayal; emotions roiled turbulently in Sam’s eyes. If looks could kill, Dean would be a dead man. Again.

 “Help? You can’t be serious. You gave up on me a long time ago, Dean. You made that clear as crystal.”

 None of this made any sense. The whole situation was nonsensical. “The hell you talking about, dude?”

 “Oh, so now we’re going to pretend nothing happened? That it was all fine? You told me you were done trying to save me. You _told_ me that!”

 “I never said that, Sam. Not once. I’ve said a lot of stupid things in my time. I’ve said a lot of things I regret. But I would never, _never_ give you up like that. Don’t you dare.”

 Sam set his jaw, pain outweighing the anger for a moment. “‘Listen to me, you blood-sucking freak. Dad always said I’d either have to save you or kill you. Well I’m giving you fair warning: I’m done trying to save you. You’re monster, Sam. A vampire. You’re not you anymore and there’s no going back.’“ His voice was monotone, like a recitation. Each word was heavy, as though it caused him physical pain.

 It made no more sense than anything else right now. “Sam, what are you saying? I’ve got to be honest, I’ve got no idea where you’re going with this.”

 “Oh, so we are pretending. Good to know. This past year makes so much more sense now.”

 “I have _no idea_ what’s going on right now, dude. Your chest looks like it’s been through the shredder. You’re talking nonsense. I don’t know if that’s something you’ve convinced yourself of, or if you’re trying to say I said that. And if that’s the latter, that’s even more ridiculous because those words never left my mouth. Ever.”

 Sam’s eyes screwed shut and took a deep shuddering breath. “You sick bastard,” he said strenuously. “What do you want from me? I don’t know what you want anymore, Dean. If nothing else, just fess up to the voicemail. Please. I can’t pretend this never happened anymore. It’s too much. It’s too hard.”

 “Voicemail? What voicemail?” Sam said nothing, just slumped into a chair in defeat. Dean thought hard, flying back through everything that had happened within the past couple of years and a flash of recognition alighted in his mind. “You’re talking after you went off with Ruby from the hotel. After that massive fight we had, right before you killed Lilith?”

 Sam laughed hollowly, the sound more an expression of pain. “I don’t know if the fact you don’t remember is worse than thinking this was all pretense.”

 “Do you still have that message?” Dean demanded. Sam’s silence was answer enough. “Give me your phone Sam. C’mon, let me see it.” Sam rummaged through his jean pockets and relinquished his phone, eyes still trained tiredly to the floor. Dean flipped through Sam’s voicemails, finding the right one and selected it, bringing the phone up to his ear and concentrating as his voice read out what he’d sent that night.

 “Hey, it’s me. Uh … look, I’ll just get right to it. I’m still pissed and I owe you a serious beatdown, but … I shouldn’t have said what I said. Y’know, I’m not Dad. We’re brothers, you know? We’re family and uh … no matter how bad it gets, that doesn’t change. Sammy, I’m sor - “

 Dean’s breath caught in realization. Anger raged through him. “I’m going to kill that bitch all over again,” he muttered, too quietly to hear. Instead, he held the phone out to Sam. “Listen,” he said simply.

 “I’m not listening to that crap again,” Sam said miserably. “I already memorized it.”

 “Just humor me, Sam.”

 “I said no!” He was standing up now, fuming, eyes glaring at his older brother. Dean tried to ignore the fresh river of blood flowing down his stomach and merely held the phone out mutely.

 The fight died in Sam’s eyes as quickly as it had come and he took the phone reluctantly, holding it up to his ear. The defeat shifted to confusion, then disbelief. Back and forth as he replayed the message three, four times, as though expecting the words to change. He dropped to his knees and Dean was swift in kneeling in front of him, hands held out cautiously. He wanted to grip Sam by the shoulders, will him to listen, but he was unsure of how Sam would react to contact.

 “I don’t understand,” Sam mumbled numbly. “You didn’t … that’s not … “

 “Ruby,” Dean said forcefully. “She screwed with your head, Sam. She manipulated you. I _never said_ what you heard that night. I would _never_ go after you like that. You’re my little brother, Sammy. It’s my job to protect you and I’m not ever gonna give up on you like that. Trust that. Please.”

 Tears spilled from Sam’s eyes and he crumpled forward. Dean caught him and help onto his sobbing brother securely, ignoring the blood dripping onto his clothes. He murmured quiet reassurances to Sam until the younger man had quieted and held onto him for a long time until his brother’s breathing had evened out. He pulled him up gently and guided him to the couch. “Let me clean you up, Sammy. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”


	9. IX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Talk of self-harm

Sam was quiet for a long time as Dean cleaned the wounds on his chest. He stared out past Dean with a lost, helpless expression on his face. The only sounds that escaped his silence were hisses of pain when the alcohol hit the lacerations. Dean apologized copiously while the burning liquid seeped into his flesh, but Sam didn’t acknowledge anything. He just stared aimlessly.

He startled violently as Dean shook him. “You hearing me, Sam?”

“What?” he asked, confused. “No, I’m sorry. I wasn’t listening.”

“I said this one’s too deep to patch up. I’m going to have to stitch it.”

Sam flinched, looking guilty. “Accident,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean to.”

Dean remembered the pained shout when he’d burst into the bathroom and winced. “Yeah, probably should have picked the lock, looking back.”

“Wasn’t your fault,” Sam replied awkwardly. An uncomfortable silence passed before Sam broke it, trying to snatch up any piece of conversation. “Where’s Cas?”

“Supply run in town,” Dean said absently, threading up a needle. “We’re almost out of protein shakes and beer.”

“He’s been gone awhile.”

“It’s Cas. Shopping. Dude could be gone all week and I wouldn’t be worried. He barely knows the difference between beer and water.”

Sam’s lips twitched into a smile before grunting as the needle entered his skin at the top of the wound.

“Sorry, man,” Dean muttered, concentrating. Sam gripped the back of the couch. Looking back, they’d probably have been better off using the kitchen table, but Dean doubted Bobby would notice a few more stains on the fabric. Sam took a swig of alcohol and focused on waiting it out. Dean worked quickly in practiced movements. Heaven knew they’d had to sew each other up countless times through the years. They were used to it.

Dean snipped the last of the sutures and finished bandaging Sam up, looking at him critically. His chest was more bandage than skin, but he’d be fine. _Physically, at least,_ he thought grimly. He watched Sam gulp down another swig of alcohol, eyes absent and lost in his own thoughts again. Dean gave him a few minutes before addressing him softly. “Sammy, we gotta talk about this.”

Sam’s eyes flickered to him momentarily before dropping to the bottle he held like a lifeline. He took another gulp, hands shakier than they had been before.

“Even disregarding the whole disastrous incident with the voicemail. The hell were you thinking, Sam? What possessed you?”

Sam brushed the hair out of his face, throat working silently as he tried to figure out what to say. “I saw Dad. In the panic room. Ruby was uh … she was … “ He swallowed hard. “And then Dad came. Saying everything he said to you, but he said it to me. That I was a monster. That I’m not human. That I … that I wasn’t his son anymore.”

“Sam, c’mon. That was just a hallucination. A fever dream from withdrawal.”

“Doesn’t mean it wasn’t true,” Sam replied quietly.

“But it wasn’t. You know that. Dad loved you, Sam. Even through all your fights and your ridiculous bickering.”

“He loved human Sam. I always knew I was different, Dean. I think we all did, but I didn’t know … we couldn’t guess. I mean what kind of sick joke? And then he told you to kill me, and I just couldn’t - “

“Only if I couldn’t save you,” Dean said firmly. “And I will never consider you past saving.”

Sam took a deep, shaky breath and looked up at the ceiling. “I can still feel it, you know,” he admitted, voice strained. “I want it so bad, Dean. It just never goes away. I can feel it burning in my veins.”

“I thought that’s what you were keeping from me,” Dean confessed guiltily. “I saw the blood on the floor and you wouldn’t face me. I could tell you were hiding something and I thought you’d somehow gotten your hands on some. I had no idea how, but it was the only thing that my mind could make sense of.”

“I’ve tried.” Sam’s voice was dull, resigned. “You always catch me before I can make it out. I’m grateful, I am, but it’s frustrating too.”

“Yeah, well what can I say? I know you too well, brother. And I know that you don’t want it, not really. Not deep down. So I’ll do what I can. But you’ve got to come to me about these things, like you did with Famine. You’ve got to tell me when this starts.”

“I was managing it,” Sam said defensively. “I dunno, it’s different this time.”

“Well it’s the first time you’ve ever successfully gotten through detox,” Dean pointed out. Sam half-shrugged in acquiescence.

“I guess.”

“Sam,” Dean said carefully. “You still haven’t answered me.”

Sam looked down at the bottle again, teeth grinding. He was silent a moment before taking a long drink. The bottle was almost empty. Dean chafed at the silence, but knew better than to break it. Sam would have to tell him in his own time. The pain and guilt in his eyes reminded him of Sam slowly drawing out tidbits of Dean’s time in Hell. The pain, the time it took for Dean to verbalize such torments. So he waited. He knew how hard this had to be.

“I had a really rough night a few weeks back.” Each word was weighed and measured and took an enormous effort to voice. “I couldn’t stop it. I tried everything, but I was too sick to leave, to try and run. So I was left with this … I dunno. It’s hard to describe. But it was tearing me apart. It was unbearable. And the only thing I could think of was that I … that I had to … “

“Bleed it out,” Dean finished grimly.

Sam swallowed and nodded, eyes fixed on the hands in his lap. “And it just became routine. I’m unclean and when that started to show, I had to bleed the taint out of me. It helps, a little. It doesn’t make it go away, but it takes the edge off, enough to manage. The pain helps me focus.”

“Well, we’ll find another way.” Dean’s tone left no room for protest, but Sam struggled anyways.

“Like what? Obviously demon blood is a no-go. Sparring would be dangerous. I couldn’t hunt. So what? What is there?”

“I dunno, Sammy. We’ll have to experiment until we find something. But this? This ends now.”

“Dean,” Sam protested weakly. “I need this.”

Dean worked hard to keep his face neutral. This situation scared him. It wasn’t something physical, something he could fight his way out of. It wasn’t something he could protect Sam from. He had so little control over this and he was struggling. “You need something. I get that Sammy, I do, but this isn’t it. It’s a band-aid, man. It’s like trying to hide behind a pebble. Sooner or later, this won’t be enough anymore. You’ll have to go deeper and deeper and then that won’t be enough either. You’ve got to find something else before it’s too late.”

Sam knew his brother was right. He’d already had to increase the lacerations in order to gain control over his cravings and it had only been a few weeks. Despite the sick solace he’d found in his solution, he felt that, somehow, the demon blood was enforcing this and that scared him. He’d ignored it for weeks, burying it because he didn’t want to face it.

“You’re probably right,” he said slowly. “But I can’t think of another solution besides locking me down.”

“You realize that may be our only option, right?” Dean asked carefully. “Eventually you’ll be able to handle this on your own. Until then, it’s probably safer to make sure you can’t run and you can’t hurt yourself anymore.” Sam’s face paled and he raised his eyes to Dean, a pleading expression on his face. Dean felt something inside him clench painfully. “Not for long,” he promised. “Just until you get a handle on it.”

A few moments passed but eventually Sam nodded, slowly at first and then more surely. “Yeah. Yeah, I think that’s best.” Dean smiled and clapped a hand to his shoulder, but Sam stopped him. “That starts now.”

Dean’s eyes widened in realization before nodding. “Alright, Sammy. We can take the spare bedroom upstairs. I’ll stay if you want, just let me know when you’re good.”

“Might take awhile,” Sam muttered, standing up. Dean grabbed a couple beers and handed one to his brother.

“Drink up. We’ve got all the time in the world.”

Sam popped the lid off while Dean gathered everything and they both headed upstairs. The pillows and blankets of the spare bed were ripped off and Dean waited quietly for Sam, who had drained his beer and was looking anxiously at the bed. He closed his eyes as a shudder ran through his spine, but he grit his teeth and sat down, nodding to Dean.

He flinched as the cuffs were clapped to his wrists and attached to the head of the bed. Dean had made sure to put cloth between skin and metal so the area wouldn’t rub raw if he struggled, but Sam didn’t notice the details. He bit back a groan, inhaling slowly as his head fell back against the bed. Dean clapped his shoulder encouragingly and brought a chair next to the bed.

The older Winchester did what he could to distract his little brother. He asked questions, made small talk, reminisced about memories. Sam replied as he could, appreciative of his efforts. As time passed, it became harder and harder to focus on the questions enough to form replies. His words were broken up by low, keening cries, desperate pulls at his cuffs and, eventually, pleading for release, for a fix, for anything that would ease his torment. When Sam was past reaching with words and Dean had drank the last beer, he took to singing quietly, trying to give Sam any lifeline to focus on through the night. Some were old songs he remembered their mother singing at night. Some were old favorites of their Dad’s, singing in the car during the countless hours on the road. Some were classics that Sam and Dean favored, belting out the rock lyrics on their way to their next hunt. It seemed to help some. At least the younger Winchester had stopped begging.

Cas came back at some point, watching from the doorway. He knew Dean was aware of his presence, but he hadn’t acknowledged him, focusing solely on Sam. Sam who, to Cas’ critical eye, looked worse than he had since this whole disaster had started. His skin was pale, almost translucent and coated in a sheen of cold sweat. His eyes were unfocused and dilated and his entire body shook from the strain he was under. But he could tell from the look in Dean’s eyes that something had changed for the better and, although he didn’t understand much of human behaviour and their thought processes, he trusted Dean to take care of Sam.

Hours passed and daylight peered through the night sky. Sam had finally come through, nodding to Dean who had hurriedly un-cuffed his brother. He gripped Sam close as he panted, exhausted, murmuring praise and reassurances until Sam had fallen asleep. He’d stayed there for hours, taking long draws from a beer Cas had given him earlier until he, too, had succumbed to sleep. Cas stood quietly in the doorway, watching over the two brothers as the sun rose high in the sky.


	10. X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone! This got way more positive attention than I thought it would and it's been super encouraging, considering this is my first Supernatural fanfic. I really appreciate it! xx

“Sam! Duck!”

Sam dropped to the floor and pottery shattered on the wall where his head had just been. “Yikes,” he muttered, rolling away as the demon who had hurled it at him jumped his way. “Maybe a little more warning next time?” he shouted towards Dean. “That almost took my head off!”

“Oh I’m so sorry!” Dean barked back sarcastically, backing towards the wall as three demons slowly advanced.

Sam saw Dean’s angel blade had dropped out of his reach and whistled twice, throwing the demon knife and watching with satisfaction as his older brother caught it and shoved the blade into the nearest demon’s chest. Sam ducked again as another vase was hurled towards him, but he heard the resultant sparks as the demon Dean had ganked dropped to the floor. He heard the sound of a punch and his brother grunted before a second round of sparks sounded in the room. Two whistles sounded in quick succession and Sam looked up in time to see the angel blade flying towards him. He caught it carefully and thrust it into the stomach of the meat suit headed towards him, yellow light sparking through the wound and the demon’s eyes.

The sound of a fourth body hit the floor and the two Winchesters stood, panting.

“Well that was a disaster,” Dean grumbled after a moment. “This place was supposed to be uninhabited, but let’s just go rescue a damsel in distress. Except where’s the damsel? Oh right, she’s a friggin’ demon!”

“Yeah, well I guess Lucifer’s about as adamant about me as Michael is about you,” Sam replied, unsettled. Talking about Lucifer always left a bad taste in his mouth, bringing to mind his uncleanliness. He shifted uncomfortably and then shrugged it off. He wouldn’t say yes, and that was the end of it.

He froze as the smell of blood finally reached him. His eyes trailed down slowly, watching the thick, crimson liquid drip lazily off the gleaming silver tip of the angel blade and a soft sound of desire escaped his throat. It was too quiet for Dean to hear, but he could feel Sam’s shift in attitude and watched his brother’s stiff form fixating on the demon below him. He studied his brother for a few seconds, waiting for Sam to relax, but when it was obvious his brother was too focused for comfort, he cleared his throat loudly. “Sam, you good?” A few seconds passed with no response and Dean called more forcefully. “Sam!”

That seemed to do the trick. Sam jumped and dropped the angel blade hurriedly, taking a few steps back from the smoking body. “Yeah,” he said breathlessly. “Yeah, I’m good. I just need some air.” He hurried out the door, leaving Dean to stare after him, eyes surveying the situation carefully. He considered going after Sam, but figured dealing with the resultant mess would help more than anything else.

He picked up the blades and cleaned them off before looking around, thinking quietly. The building was old, abandoned. They hadn’t even expected to be in the building. They’d heard a woman cry out and rushed in, resulting in their ambush. An idea crossed his mind and he grinned, walking out to the trunk for salt and gasoline, muttering something about being right back. Typically Sam would have questioned why he was carrying gasoline into a building, but he was leaning against Baby’s hood, arms crossed tightly around his chest with his eyes closed, murmuring something silently to himself.

Dean threw copious amounts of salt on the bodies before dousing them thoroughly with gasoline. Standing in the doorway, he lit a row of matches and tossed them carelessly into the chaotic mess before stepping out, walking towards Sam. The building’s wood must have dried out in the summer heat because the structure caught quickly and flames were soon climbing the walls. The scent of gas-tainted smoke and the growing roar of the fire broke Sam out of his thoughts and he turned, regarding the building, and then Dean, with incredulity.

“You didn’t,” he said, eyes wide.

“I did,” Dean grinned. “Let’s go, before someone calls 911.”

Sam looked at the building again before throwing his brother an exasperated look and climbed quickly into the passenger’s side. Dean turned the ignition and the Impala roared to life before Dean hit the gas and they sped away.

“That’s going to cause a ridiculous amount of attention,” Sam grumbled. “You could have just left the bodies there. Or we could have taken them somewhere else to burn.”

“I didn’t feel like cleaning blood out of her upholstery today,” Dean said, patting the dashboard fondly. “Baby deserves better than that. And besides, burning the evidence means less attention towards us.”

“We still didn’t finish what we came here for,” Sam pointed out. They’d been following a lead on Death, but had been interrupted by the ambush. Dean just shrugged.

“We’ll come back in a few hours, once this has all died down. We can grab a burger or something in the meantime. I’m starving.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “You’re always starving.”

“What about you? You hungry?” Sam was quiet a moment before shaking his head faintly. Dean looked at him critically a moment, recognizing the familiar strain in his brother’s features. “You good, Sammy?” he asked softly.

Sam shifted uncomfortably before nodding. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

Dean nodded and turned his eyes back to the road. “Good.” He turned on the radio and started one of his favorite tapes to fill the silence, thinking quietly.

It had been three months since they’d defeated Famine and two months since all of Sam’s anguished secrets had burst through. He’d kept a close eye on his little brother and, although he could tell Sam had chafed at the constant observation, he knew that he’d also welcomed it. He’d started coming to Dean regularly, once or twice a day, saying nothing and merely holding out the handcuffs to his older brother. Dean had always understood the message, of course, and had sat with Sam through his episodes. They’d become shorter and less frequent as time went on, decreasing to a few times per week. They’d started going on short, easy, straightforward hunts that Bobby found to recondition Sam after his physical decline. He’d regained his typical prowess swiftly, reveling in the distraction that the hunts had given him and, slowly, his mind began to recover.

It had been two weeks since Sam had last come to Dean for help.

When the demons had jumped them in the abandoned building, Dean had panicked. He doubted Sam’s readiness, his ability to turn down such temptation when it was thrust upon him so readily. He’d intentionally distracted as many demons as he could, keeping Sam safe from as much as he could for as long as he was able. He’d meant to gank all four on his own, but they had obviously been there to collect Sam. In the end, his little brother had done better than either of them could have hoped for.

“I’m proud of you,” Dean said, the words cutting smoothly through the rock lyrics.

Sam shifted awkwardly, sneaking a look at his brother before fixing his gaze out the window.

“I mean it, Sam. You did really good back there. I know you’re probably beating yourself up about it, but don’t. I may have snapped you out of it, but you did the rest on your own. You didn’t even hesitate until we’d ganked those black-eyed bastards.”

“Dean, c’mon,” Sam said, embarrassed.

Dean could tell Sam was mulling over his words despite his self-consciousness, so he hid a smile and switched gears. “What, you gonna blush or something?”

Sam relaxed some and sat back in his seat. “You make me sound like some hormonal teenager seeing a pretty girl,” he grumbled.

“Yeah, well not too far off last night, huh? What was her name? Uh … Charlotte, right?” Dean grinned, remembering the flirtatious blonde bartender that had taken a shine to Sam.

Sam sighed and rolled his eyes. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Sure it wasn’t,” Dean sniggered. “You keep telling yourself that, bro.”

Sam protested and they fell into an easy pattern of quips and laughter. Dean relaxed muscles he hadn’t known were tense and smiled quietly to himself. Sammy would be okay. They both would. For the first time in months, he felt real hope. Everything was going to work out fine.


End file.
